


Iron and smoke

by Aegiswarrior



Series: You can't go home again [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, implied CF route, listen talking about war is something that can actually be very homoerotic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aegiswarrior/pseuds/Aegiswarrior
Summary: “Manuela taught me magic.” Dorothea says. She tries to smile, but it’s weak and unconvincing. “It was so pretty at first. It felt like singing, like a kind of art.”“But it’s a weapon.” Ingrid says.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Series: You can't go home again [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1828210
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	Iron and smoke

“Manuela taught me magic.” Dorothea says. She tries to smile, but it’s weak and unconvincing. “It was so _pretty_ at first. It felt like singing, like a kind of art.”

“But it’s a weapon.” Ingrid says.

“It is.” Dorothea admits. “It didn’t feel so pretty after the first time I set someone on fire because he wouldn’t let go of me.” She laughs. “That’s absurd, isn’t it? I’ve been a soldier for years now, but I still can’t forget the first time I hurt someone. The way it felt. How he yelled. The _smell_.”

“Oh.” Ingrid tries to remember the first time she hurt someone, but she doesn’t know. It would have been when she was play fighting with Sylvain and Felix. But Ingrid can’t remember a time before she was friends with them, let alone a time before they had ever hurt each other.

But she does remember the first time she killed someone. How she had felt assured in the moment, that it had to be done, that it had been her duty. Even if their face had been stuck in her head for weeks afterwards, haunting her.

She thinks she understands.

“I wouldn’t have made it through today without you.” Ingrid says.

It’s not enough, she knows. Someone gentler, better with words, would have known what to say. How to put _you saved my life_ and _I know you hate this_ together in some graceful way.

( _Thank you for killing someone for my sake_ hardly seems appropriate)

“Yes.” Dorothea says. She laughs again. “I’m very good at killing people, aren’t I?” She pauses, settles herself. “I’m glad you are safe, though. It might be worth it as long as that’s true.”

Dorothea glances down at her hands. It’s still dark inside her tent, but Ingrid’s eyes have been adjusting to the gloom, and she can see how filthy they are, covered in ash and blood and the mixture of both. Dorothea catches her looking, and she sighs.

“I know. I just… wanted to remember for a while longer. I can’t let myself forget.”

Ingrid remembers how it felt to just be near Dorothea while she was casting spells, the power that she had summoned just from within herself. She wonders how it feels to Dorothea herself, if it makes the situation they’re in better or worse to have a weapon held within herself. A sword can be sheathed, a lance dropped to the ground. Magic stays in one’s skin forever.

She stands, searches through Dorothea’s tent as quietly as she can. Dorothea hasn’t moved since she last spoke, sitting with her eyes closed and her hands folded in her lap, looking almost asleep if it weren’t for her furrowed brow.

There’s a shallow basin that she finds in one corner with an old rag, and a spare container of water. It’s enough. She kneels in front of Dorothea, gently takes her hands in her own. If this had been one of the grandiose tales she had grown up on, one about heroic knights defeating seemingly insurmountable odds, this would have been poetic. Grand. Maybe Ingrid would be a sworn knight, and not a traitor who has thrown aside duty after duty to chase after a dream she somehow still believes in. And Dorothea would be a Lady, a Queen maybe, someone powerful and gentle and wise. Not a woman almost broken by the very war she volunteered to be a part of. Maybe if it had been a story like that, Dorothea could have stayed in a halcyon dream, stayed a songstress with no fear of what will happen once her talent runs dry. That she never would have to discover her talent for war.

(Maybe Ingrid could live in a dream too. One where battles end cleanly, that one’s enemies are evil, and cruel, and not just people. A dream full of exciting swordfights where no one ever dies, and her hands stay clean. Maybe, maybe.)

Wars had seemed so righteous when she had been younger, and killing more justified. The stories she had been raised on made war seem so simple. Loog had been a hero who never had to slit the throat of an enemy soldier begging for a merciful end. If only they had stayed dreams. If only.

“Let me help you.” Ingrid says. Dorothea doesn’t fight her off, lets her dip her hands into the water and slowly start to scrub off each layer of grime. Bit by bit, inch by inch, the water muddies, leaves her hands cleaner than before. Like this, it’s hard to clean it perfectly. But it’s something.

(And it was never about the grime, she knows that much. And as much as she wants to lift this burden off Dorothea’s shoulders, as much as she wishes there were some perfect string of words that could fix this, nothing is ever so simple.)

She can only ever try.

Even once she’s done, she stays in place, holds Dorothea’s hands for a minute more. “You’re not alone in this.” She tries. It sounds awkward, even to her. “I can’t fix everything. But I’ll help you, if you need me.”

Dorothea’s hands curl around hers, hold them tight. Her palms are rougher than she expected, rougher than a singer or a mage’s should be.

“Oh, Ingrid.” She starts. “Do you even hear yourself sometimes?”

She winces. “It’s that bad?”

“No. You just have me wondering if I should go hunting for matching rings.”

Ingrid feels her face start to heat up. “I meant...”

“I know, Ingrid. I’m only teasing.”

Dorothea starts to smile, and Ingrid forces herself to relax. But she doesn’t let go of her hands. Not yet. She lifts one up, presses a kiss against the back. The scent of iron and smoke is still strong, but she doesn’t let herself flinch away. It’s more honest this way, she thinks. More human than perfume or rosewater ever could be.

“I mean it.” Ingrid says, softly. “If you need me. I’ll be there.”


End file.
